<?xml version="1.0"?><rss version="2.0"><channel><title>covenant's Journal RSS Feed</title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/rss</link><description>covenant's Journal RSS Feed</description><item><title><![CDATA[Five O'Clock Head]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7606</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7606</guid><description><![CDATA[I am enjoying a bit of a break between treatments right now, and have to say, it is so nice to not have life ruled by the medical world for a bit!  The break was not planned -- it came about because of a second coming of the c-diff infection, not my choice of a way to get a time out, but has turned out to be  a blessing in disguise.

For the first time since the surgery, etc., I've had a chance to have a breather, get back some energy and re-group.  Because of some other major health problems and disability, the chemo hit very hard, so I'd been basically bed-ridden during that.  This has given me a chance to get back on my feet, even run a few errands, see a few friends.  I'm lovin' it!

I gave up on the wig.  I could not find a way to make it comfortable.  Too hot, itchy.  So, even though I had wanted the privacy, I've gotten used to the scarf bit.  At home I generally go about looking like a female Mr. Clean, sans tattoos.  Luckily for me, I have a wonderfully supportive husband.  I do not know how I would have gone through this without him, or my great friends.

The hair's just starting to make an appearance-- I call it my 5 o'clock head look.  I can't tell what color it's coming in.  Some of the hairs look darker than they were, some lighter.  Mystery hair.  Last night I was lying on the sofa reading and one of our cats hopped up and started licking my head-- promptly stopped--  gave me this look with her eyes all screwed up and her tongue half way out, like "ick, what's with the bristles, lady."  Hey, I never asked her to lick my dome...

Sure speeds up the showering process, tho.  One towel.  Saves on shampoo.  Only real problem I've run into is a few pimples on my head.  I have absolutely no idea if they show up because there's now no hair, or if you always get them, but never know because they're usually covered up... another of the minor details that are not in any of the "So now you've got Breast Cancer " books.  Someone should put out a book with all the little things thaat may or may not come up, and ways other women have dealt with them-- and which ones mean yes, call your doctor.]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Something to avoid]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7588</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7588</guid><description><![CDATA[If you would like something to avoid at all cost, I suggest becoming infection of C-Diff, a form of Colustridium Difficiale (sp), which causes a truley nastyform of colitis.

Unfortunately, it's one of those naturally occurring critters that live in many of our digestive tracts, expecially on the Northeast and Canada, and when the benififal bacterium get killed, and our immune systems are weakened , as from chemo, here it comes, takiin over, running rampant through our intestants.  All sorts of jolly symptoms show their faces:  the runs like you've never experienced before, a sence you can track the entire route of your bowels by the firey pain throughout your entire tract, such a sore hind end you feel it's going to start bleeding, and becoming best friends with your bathroom.

A lovely situation.  And oh, so glamorous.  Like so much from Cancer, another humilitating loss of privacy.

Apparently, the original bout I had was caused because I was put on antibiotics after my first dose of chemo whem I got a sinus infection, which killed off the :good" guys in my gut, allowing the c-diff to rule the land.  And rule i did.  I spent 9 days in isolation in the hospital while being visited by everyone wearing yelluw gowins and purple gloves.  Was sent home with two weeks of Flagil, the drug of choice.

Two days after finishing the anti-b's, the c-diff reared its ugly hrad and was almost immediallly back to its original form.  Back to square one, and I can't say I'm at all happy a all about it!  So I'm taking another course of the sme drugs, and if that doesn't work, wil swich to another, and be sent to a bigr hospital.  Excuse the pun, but what a crappy situation.

So, ladies, geep good track of what i going on, and please, if you get the rund, take it seriously.  Tell them what's going in-- make sure to stay hydrated, and ask to have it cultured.  The first e-room I went to wouldn't listen when I sai I wwa undergoing chemo and had what seemes unluke any oof the "runs" I'd ever had before-- gave me 2 litres if water interveniously, Immidium, and sent me home.  Three days later the cancer cener traed it ighe.  Even tho I told the e-room it wasn't normal, that I was getting chemo, they didnlt do a culture.  The immodium is, apparentl, the worst thing to do.

So if the same thing seems to happen to you, be a fighter and make them do a culture right a way, and perhaps it won't get this kind of hold.  Please.

Thinking of yopu all in your different battles,
Betsy]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Of all the things I'd imagined...]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7542</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7542</guid><description><![CDATA[Well, it sure is good to be back home again.  Spent nine days in isolation at the hospital because the second chemo treatment wiped out all the "benificial flora" in my gut, allowing C-Diff (naturally, there's a much longer Latin name for it) to take over, felling me like a tree before a chain saw.

Sure didn't expect to be layed low by the "trots," or whatever polite euphimisim one chooses.  When they say call if you get 'em, they mean it, 'cause once that sucker gets hold, it sure doesn't want to let go.

Within a couple of days of that second treatment anything that went in dashed through like one of the Earlhardt crew members vying for a record.  Called the Doc on call at the Cancer Center where I'm being treated (naturally it was the weekend) who told me to go to the local E-room, which we did.  They pumped two liters of fluid in, gave me Immodium, acted like my repeated comments to them about being on chemo, this seeming like more than the usual "runs," ... were being a bit alarmist, and sent me home saying to cal the Cancer Center in a few days if it didn't clear up.  Since at that point I didn't have a temp, which I rarely do-- in fact my normal temp is 96-97 -- it couldn't, they claimed, be much to worry about.

Two days later the temp started going up.  Called the Cancer Center-- they said get over there-- they ran a culture, hung a bag of fluids, and the next thing I knew  I was on an ambulance on my was to their affiliated hospital, where I spent the next 9 days in isolation, hooked up to IVs of fluids, potassiums, antibio's, etc.  My temp kept rising for the next two days, my  BP was running around 80/58.  Finally, on day 3 things started turning around, but I couldn't leave until I could take liquid by mouth that would stay in  without going through too fast to do any good.  About day 6 I could actually eat a bit, and now things are getting almost normal!

I'll tell you, it is so good to be home!  It is so hard to get much real rest at the hospital-- why do they have to be such noisy places?  Even in the middle of the night?  I understand all the vitals checks, wakeups for meds, etc., but can anyone tell me why they come in everytime they are changing shifts to tell you this?  Fine during the day, But to tell you the truth, at 4 a.m. I really don't care who's going home and who's coming on.  Do you?

No-- the staff was wonderful-- each and everyone of them.  Even got to ride in an ambulance and they didn't drop me, although they DID knock over the little night stand in the room and manage to break of the drawers on it.  Better it than me!

So take all these little details that come up during treatment seriously-- it might just turn out to be a problem.

Oh, and I've found a great way to get off those pesky short loose hairs that keep falling off-- duct tape!  Just like you'd use it to get hair off the black wool coat the cat fell asleep on.  Really.

And, by the way, no more chemo.  We decided it was just too risky for me.  So as soon as I feel good enough, out w/ the port (glad it was there this past few weeks, I must say), and on to radiation.

Who knows, maybe by the holidays I'll have an inch or so of hair!  That'll be something to celebrate, won't it?]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Just when you start feeling human...]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7501</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7501</guid><description><![CDATA[Yep, here it comes again... just when I'm beginning to start feeling human again, day after tomorrow it's Chemo time again!  Nice to have something to look foward to, isn't it?

But then, it's just two more treatments, and I'll be through.  That's how I'm TRYING to look at it, when actually it's much more of an oh no, here it comes again, kind of feeling.  Do I really have to do this again, and again, and again?  Really?

It's like having two brains-- the one that looks at all of this with some common sense and logic-- and says "Well just get through this, it's just X many weeks of feeling rotton, and when we're through this..."

And the other brain that feels like a small bunny with a large wolf about to chomp its very large, dripping bloody jaws, down on its hindquarters no matter how fast the bunny has been running.  Oh, that wolf is getting close.

The first brain tries to remind me I need this, I managed to get through the first treatment with a modicum of sanity, albiet the fatigue, and we'll talk to the oncologist abot the headaches, etc. before the treatment and see if there are bette ways to handle them.  Plus, with the weather this hot, isn't it going to be cooler once my hair comes out?

The bunny darts under a bush, but still hears the wolf breathing.

Carrots anyone?]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[We need a new word for Fatigue!]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7496</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7496</guid><description><![CDATA[I am nearly a week out from that first chemo treatment, and the word fatigue just doesn't cover it!  Bone weary.  Gonzo.  Poured in place. Lethargic. 

Those are good starts, maybe, but don't even begin to cover it.  I have never experienced anything like this, except possibly the first few days after my spine was rebuilt and all the metal was put in.  

But this deserves a whole new word.  Come on ladies, put your heads together--  Flatigue?  Chemotose?

Whatever you call it, I've never spent so much time feeling like I'd been poured into one position for so long  at  a time!  And I'm just beginning to get back bits of energy.  Today I managed to do some laundry, and was so proud of myself, as if this were a major accomplishment.  pitiful.

For me, the hardest part, other than the queasiness, was the constant migraines that the shot the next day kicked off.  I'm still having trouble getting those under control.  If I can get that part licked, I think it will make the entire thing easier.  Then it will just make this something to get through.  One down, three to go.

Saturday I went down to my friend's who cuts my hair and had her cut it very short-- like 1/2" around the back and sides, and maybe 2" on top.  Her name is Sharon Stone, which always gives my husband a chuckle, (no, not THE).  Before the surgery, she'd given me a shorter than usual, maybe 5" cut-- easier to care for-- haircut.  I'm trying to ease into the bald beauty look gracefully.  I've been told with A/C chemo I'm more or less guaranteed the hairloss.  The short hair looks pretty good, but I keep catching myself in the mirror and being surprised.  Until last year I had waist-length hair for over 30 years-- this is a big change!

But I'd rather feel like I'm driving, so when it starts coming out, Sharon's coming over here and shaving the rest off.  Make a fashion statement out of it.  Though privacy issues make me plan on covering up in public-- who wants to have to answer everyone's questions constantly?  I get enough of that when I need to use my cane.

My mail-order hair came this week.  We're too far out in the sticks to have a local cancer society, but I got one of their wigs via internet.  It doesn't look like what I normally look like, but it looks like hair, and w/ some make-up, "accessories," etc., hey, it will keep the people who, tho maybe well-meaning, inappropriately intrude at bay when I go into town.  The same ones who believe any pregnant woman's belly is free game for public touching.

So now I get another week to regain my strength, energy, conquer the headaches and clean the house (wow, what a disaster it became while I was laid out this week) before the next round.

See ya in chemo-land.  What words do you pick?]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Chemo starts When?  I thought I was over this.]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7489</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7489</guid><description><![CDATA[Day after tomorrow?  No!  I am not ready for this!  Yes, the port is in place, that all went well.  I've had all of the discussions with the med oncologist about the A/C treatment.  But I do not want to do this even though I know it is the best thing for me under the current situation.

I am being a complete wuss, I know.  People have gone through so much worse.  I have gone through so much worse.  But the idea of this chemo is bringing up issues I had thought were long ago dealt with.  Long ago put to bed.  Long ago buried, at rest.

Chemo fear is turning me back into a three year old child, maybe four, at the mercy of an insane mother who had complete control, as do all parents, good or bad, of children that age and much older.  Chemo fear has me once again waking screaming from the old nightmares, memories of events that happened over and over again.

The most immediate, of course, is from the fear of the nausea, a big threat from the chemo.  So often she would pin me down and force feed me water until I would vomit, then rub my face in the mess, screaming at me, at what a disgrace I was.  I always panic when I feel ill, nearly half a century later, memories still have such a chokehold on the parts of your soul that are unreachable by reason.

The cancer itself, my own body, attacking me from within, self betraying self like mother betraying daughter.  I grew inside of her; she tried in so many ways, some subtle, often blatent, like trying to drown me in the tub or breaking bones, to destroy.  This grew in me, of me, to destroy.

Through lots of work, I learned, for the most part, to live around what happened.  To those who believe you can learn to forget or forgive, that is not possible.  But at times of great stress, regardless of all the work accomplished, back it floods.  And right now, about to start chemo, port in place, surgery completed, the 42 broken bones, the days and nights locked in rooms and all the creative and relentless torture is as real as if it were yesterday instead of years ago.

In a few months I'll have finished the chemo, I'll have managed the seven weeks of radiation.  In a year I'll be back to regular hair cuts and living around the past again.  The nightmares will have become, again, something that used to wake me up, screaming, with some regularity.  But I thought I had learned how to handle these monsters of the past.

I thought I was over this.]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Ok, tests done, now what?]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7475</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7475</guid><description><![CDATA[Went in for the pre-op tests like they told me to.  Now, you have to remember, this is simply to put in the port, they aren't removing a leg or transplanting a heart or something major organ, but this hospital required More pre-op tests than any hospital I've ever encountered before!  Amazing.  The form I rc'vd in the mail said to bring in all my meds in their original containers from the pharmacy.  Between the back, the nerve damage, the chronic migraines, the Barret's esophagus, not sleeping, etc., this was a amajor undertaking.

But that's what they asked for, so I shlepped down all this stuff--  looked like I was planing on staying over for a month or two.

The nurse asked questions, had me fill out enough forms to endanger a major tropical rainforest.  The anesthaesthesia (sp) guy came out, asked pretty  much the same questions, with the same forms right in front of him.  (Reaing them would have been WAY too much effort, I'd imagine.  Luckily, he decided the chest x-ray I had for the lumpectomy was recent enough (3 weeks?) to go with that, anf last week's echo was still current to go with that.  So on to the EKG.   Now, even with the back surgery, which took over ten hours, nobody asked for one of these.  It was just fine.

Now, none of the personnel today had ever run into an implanted pain pump, so I ended up having to educate them, one-by-one about that, which I seem to have to do everywhere I go, then I had to pee into a cup, and they were about through.  The nurse asked if I had any questions.

I asked her why, since nobody had asked to see them, why they had asked me to drag all my meds down with me.  She just looked sheepish.  (I have six sheep at home, so I'm quite familiar with that look.)

I also asked, as the port surgery is Thrusday, when and where I had to report, and they said they would call between i and 4 tomorrow-- just another day stuck at home because they don't have their ducks in a row yet.  How hard would it have been to give me a time today?

Sometimes I feel like the medical business believes you don't mind just putting your entire life on hold to accomodate them.  Like our other lives aren't important, just our current ailments, which we'd all prefer to forget whenever possible, tho they won't allow us to, even for a moment, even if it's just being stuck at home an  extra day waiting for a call aboout an appointment.   

If I had anything to say about it, they'd get more organized, so in between appointments and treatments, you could just get along with your life and forget, for those moments, that you are a cancer patient.  I believe it would be healthier for me to spent Wednesday getting in the meds and food I'll need the next few days, then shelving everything and waiting with baited breath for the phone to ring with the time, etc. of the port surgery.  My last day of freedom before surgery suddenly lost by their whim.

The hospital in Bangor where I have my pain pump taken care of has all of their staff unionized, and before I leave from one appointment, I have a new appointment card for my next appointent right in my sweaty hand.  In the waiting room there is a sign that says if you've been waiting longer than 10 minutes, to go back to the desk and complain.  The entire hospital runs more smoothly.  If they can do this, all hospitals can, whether unionized or not.  It make so much more sense all the way across the board.

You'd think it'd be easier on their doctors and other employees, too.  Back when I was in the gardening and landscape business, if I'd treated my customers this way, well, I'l tell you Thursday afternoon when I'll be there Friday, I'd have been out of business so fast...]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Too many doctors!]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7474</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7474</guid><description><![CDATA[I have to get up early tomorrow to go to the hospital for the pre-surgical tests so they can put the port in on Thursday.  Now, to me, this seems kind of redundant as I was healthy enough a few weeks ago to undergo breast surgery, and not much has changed since then-- same lungs, blood...   they're just putting in a port, for crying out loud!

But they're the doctors, so in too many ways, as we all know, they call the shots!

Having had so much surgery before this, you'd think I'd be used to it, but sometimes it boggles the mind.

Then Thursday I go in and get the port, which doesn't worry me at all-- I think the port is a good idea.  Sure beats trying to find a vein in MY arm each time I go in.  And since  I have an implanted pump that puts Morphine and bipivucaine into my spine already,  I'm pretty familiar with implanted devices, and this port is so much smaller than the pump.  The pump is almost the size of a tuna can.  It's located near my waist under the skin, with caths that thread around and into my spine.  

The first pump I had was put in about eleven years ago-- the current one I have is my third one, and I hope, my final one.  The first two were Medtronics and had batteries, so they had to be changed whenever the batteries wore out.  The second Medtronic pump was put in by a doctor who shall remain nameless but put it in wrong three times, making me end up having four surgeries in under 16 months.  

The pump I have now is a Codman, and has no batteries, so hopefully should never wear out.  But every 57 or 58 days it has to be refilled, which they do through the skin with a syringe, same as going into a port, and the next refill date is next Tuesday, so we've delayed starting chemo until the day after that.  It's a two hour drive each way to the hospital where they handle my pain pump, something I didn't want to do the day after my first chemo session, especially not knowing how I'd react after chemo.  When I had cervical cancer in my early 20's I did not have to have chemo-- this is a whole new "learning experience" for me.

I have to admit the whole idea of chemo scares the pants off me.  The idea of filling your body with a toxic substance to kill off any lingering cells... without killing too many of your necessary living cells... it's intimidating, isn't it?  You hear all these nightmare stories.  They give you handouts on the drugs they're going to use that have the possible side effects listed and you think-- gosh, by the end of this I'm going to be Swamp Thing.

And then, of course, the radiation will probably make me glow in the dark, so if they turn me into Swamp Thing, at least you all will be able to see me coming!

If I take the Swamp Thing fantasy a bit farther, at that point I can drag all these doctors deep into the swamp:  The two surgeons for the back situation, the pain guy, the neurologist I have to see every three months, the guy who treets the Barrett's esophagitis I developed from the pain meds, then the breast surgeon, how many radiologists and anaesthesthetics?, two oncologists, a separate surgeon for the port, golly that swamp is filling up pretty quickly, now isn't it?  Should we add the cardio guy because they required a baseline echocardiagram?, all the phlebotomists... no, they're just doing things on the orders of the MDs.  And we'll leave out all the nurses, who have made all of these "learning experiences" so much easier, bless them.  Where would any of us be without nurses?  

The only doc I really want to keep at this point is my primary care physician, who's great, and managing to keep me somewhat sane (or what passes for sane) during all of this.  Of course, she's a DO, not an MD.  I wonder if that makes the difference.  Hmm.

Well, old Swamp Thing's gotta go curl up with the dog and try to get some rest before yet another day's tests.  See ya amongst the murk and gators.]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Venting Day]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7471</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7471</guid><description><![CDATA[As I mentioned, I believe, on Thursday I get my port, then next Wed I start chemo.  It's bad enough to have all of this to look foward to, but it seems like all of these doctors won't give you a moment in between any of this to have a few days to forget you are a patient.

I am tired of being "sick."

I am already disabled from a previous series of back injuries that took four years and 12 doctors to "prove" to the medical industry was real.  Apparently, because at that time I worked outdoors for a living, I appeared so healthy, doctors would not take my word for it that something was not functioning correctly with my body.  By the time I finally got someone to believe me, my back had disintegrated to a point that an instrumented fusion stabalized the situation, but could not do anything about the pain. In fact, after the surgery the pain was worse. 

The two discs that were disintegrating by then were so far gone that every time I moved it was a bone-on-bone grinding, and the vertibrae themselves were beginning to wear down.  Until it got to the point that my feet would curl up from the nerve damage, the muscle structure alongside of my spine was strong enough to hold my back together, I kept working as a landscape gardener and designer,  (although in considerable pain) but to these doctors I appeared to be okay.

So now I have an implanted constant flow morphine pump just to get thru the day and perform the necessary tasks.  I already had to give up the occupation I trained for and loved ten years ago, and now cancer.

So it's a juggling act as it is.  But the doctors aren't satisfyed with letting you by with just one set of tests, or one set of lists of meds.  I am being treated in a few different locations because we live in a fairly rural locatiion and things are spread out, far apart, and I can't drive myself too far.

I thought I had the first few days of this week to get some other things in order before the port was put in on Thursday, get laundry done, extra groceries in, things like that.  With the back and the pump, I can only accomplish just so much  at a time, and yesterday in the mail I found out I have to spend Tuesday at the hospital having a bunch of pre-op tests, etc., done ordered by the surgeon who is putting in the port.  Come on guys!  I just had surgery a few weeks ago to remove the cancer, which was a much more extensive surgery than putting in a simple port, for crying out loud-- can't you just refer to THOSE pre-op films and tests and lists of meds?  How much can have changed?

So this means driving an hour, spending two hours at the hospital (according to the letter I got) and driving home another hour.  Basically, for my abilities, a day shot.  And with the back situation, I can only do things every other day.  There goes the week before chemo starts.

Next week, the week the chemo starts, I have Monday to prepare, because I have to go to Bangor (two hours each way, to have the pump filled) on Tuesday, and start the chemo on Wednesday.  And never having had chemo, I have absolutely no idea how I'm going to feel from the chemo.  I already have to take about ten different meds because of the damage to my back and the peripheral nerve damage that happened because it took so long to diagnose since nobody would believe me.

I would just like a few days in there when I can just pretend, for a bit, that I am not sick.  Just for a few days.  When the house can stay clean for two days, when I don't have a headache from the nerve damage, when I don't have pain running down my legs, when I don't have all of this hanging over my head.

Two days.  Two days.  Is that too much to ask?

Apparently it is.]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Starting the wig search, etc.]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7467</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7467</guid><description><![CDATA[I spent this morning with the woman who regularly does my hair (her name is Sharon Stone, which my husband gets a real kick out of-- no relation to THE sharon Stone) and she put a much more blonde color into my own hair, figuring as it will no doubt be gone in a few weeks, I might as well have some fun with it while it lasts.  Sure surprised Mark when I got home -- I haven't looked this color since about 30 years before we met!

Then we went on-line looking at various wigs and wig styles.  I haven't yet been able to locate any of the "Look Good- Feel Better" type programs near where I live here in Maine, so  I'll probably have to buy a wig on my own.  She was quite a help on giving me ideas about types, costs, etc.  I doubt I'll wear it much at home, but I want the privacy when out in public of not looking like a chemo patient.  That may seem silly, but that's just how I am.  Many of the people who know me casually don't even know I'm disabled from my back injury as I only go out and about on the days I can get around, so it doesn't show too much, anyway.  I'm kind of a private person, except on this website, for some reason.

There certainly are a bunch of wigs out there!  And quite a range of costs.  I want to stay as cheap as possible, though, partly because of our finances, and also as I don't intend to need this too long.  It's a disconcerting process, though, isn't it?]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[meeting the oncologists]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7462</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7462</guid><description><![CDATA[Well, now I've met both the Radiation and Medical Oncologists, and tho I was dreading it, at least that step is over.  My surgeon didn't think I'd have to do chemo, but added that would be up to the oncology team.  Unfortunately they disagreed, and think that would be an important element.  

There's that surge of gut-churning fear and sense of non control again.

The idea of radiation doesn't bother me-- that will be something to be endured, and I've been through worse.  I come from a background of abuse from family, then first husband, then had to undergo an instrumented fusion of my back that left me hardly able to walk.  I have an implanted pump that puts morphine continuously into my spine, which is like magic as it gives me back so much of my life by controlling enough of the back pain so I can do many normal tasks..


...but chemo?  I just don't know about this one.  I know thousands and thousands have gone through it before me, so I feel like such a whiner to be this tied up about it, but every time my mind goes there I nearly shut own.

I need to know how to do this.]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Good path report]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7459</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/7459</guid><description><![CDATA[I had my surgery, which went well, and got back my path report a few days later getting better news tha I'd had since all of this started!  There were two tumors, but both were of the same kind of cancer, a slow growing ductal type, the margins were clean and !! there appears to be no nodal involvement!!

Beforehand the surgeon thought things were going to be worse, so she was pleased to give good news for a change.

I'm apparently right on the line as to whether chemo will be reccommended, so have a meeting with the medical oncologist tomorrow for his ideas, then the findings will go before the hospital's Tumor Board.  Didn't know there was such a thing.  Here's hoping I can go straight to radiation.  It feels like I'm playing Monopoly and hoping to get that  get out og jail card.

I met the  radiation Oncologist the other day and liked him.  He spent a considerable amount of time explaining the entire process.  As I opted for a lumpectomy over a mastectomy, the radiation is a certainty -- we knew that from the get-go.  He said it will be 7 weeks, 5 days a week.  I guess that's standard.  The larger tumor was 1.9 centimeters.  I'm glad they're gone and hope they stay that way.

The whole thing sure messes with your mind and body, though, doesn't it!  There have been days I could have slept all day-- just don't want to know anything about the world out there.

Oh, and the sloshing boob bit-- nobody warned me about that detail!    The cavity from where they took out the tumors filled up with fluid and a few days after surgery I flopped down in bed and heard this sloshing, like a waterbed.  Thought at first it was a water bottle as I've been drinking as much as possible to flush out all the chemicals from the surgery, etc., but couldn't find one.  So I moved over, and heard it again.  Looked around, no bottle.

Finally realized the noise was coming from me!  Everytime my breast moves there's a quite audible slosh, there's so much fluid in it.  The surgeon assures me there's no problem about this. but it sure gives new meaning to the term "jugs."]]></description></item><item><title><![CDATA[Jog in the Road]]></title><link>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/4714</link><guid>http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/mynbcf/members/cov/journals/4714</guid><description><![CDATA[Tomorrow morning I'll get up before five and my husband and I will drive two hours to the medical center where I'm having the surgery that will begin this battle.  In some ways, I'm looking foward to this.

The past two weeks since the initial diagnosis, with the rush of the biopsies, then trying to get everything ready in order to have the rest of my life in order while this goes on, have been mind scrambling.  I'm sure every one of you  going through this can identify with this.  Whenever I stop for a moment, thoughts of statistics, fears of chemo, pictures of me looking like Telly Savalos flood my mind.

Friends ask how I'm doing -- all I can answer is "what minute?"  I feel like Mark Twain's description of New England's weather -- if you don't like it, just wait a minute, it'll change.

So I'm looking foward to getting those labs back, knowing the pathology of what we're actually dealing with, besides the general description of an invasive ductal carcinoma involving lymph nodes.  Put a face on the monster, it makes it easier to fight it.

So that's where things are today.]]></description></item></channel></rss>